Postbellum
by piston heart
Summary: She can't forget, but she can forgive. – SasukeSakura


**Author's Note: **I haven't written fanfiction in years, but Naruto has been present in my life since I was in elementary school, and one of my favorite pairings is canon, and I needed to express my joy _somehow._  
><strong>SPOILERS FOR MANGA ENDING<strong>

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><p>Sakura had never expected this, not really, not in her wildest dreams - but here it is. Here <em>he <em>is. His hand is on her waist, and he has one leg, haphazardly, tucked over her own. His chest is warm against her back. She should really get up and turn off the lights, and the TV, and put the takeout leftovers in the fridge, but she's far too comfortable. There's a part of her, too, that's worried that if she stands up and walks away she'll come back and he'll be gone, so she stays.

This is the first time he's ever been in her apartment. She lives downtown, and most of her neighbors are in their mid-twenties, just like her, and most of them work odd hours - just like her. She'd been worried about the mess when he walked in. There were stacks of paper on the table, medical reports and mission reports, articles and bills; usually she isn't so disorganized, but...It's been busy, lately. And there were some dishes in the sink, too. She'd been too tired to take care of them. Moving up in the hospital hasn't been easy work, even though she knows she's incredibly skilled and that she's proven it a hundred times over. It's taken up most of her time. Still, she's fiercely proud of her apartment, cluttered as it is: it's home. It's practical, like her, and a little girly, but it's hers.

He hadn't said anything about the clutter. In fact, he'd said, "You have a nice place." She's not used to his kindness yet. It's like most of his fury seeped out of him, and left a blotchy mixture of sorrow and peace in its wake, like he's a painting whose colors have all run together. He had even, tentatively, held her hand on the way there, after leaving her a voicemail a week before, saying he was in town and that he wanted to meet her. They'd had coffee - well, she had coffee and he had tea - and talked, quietly, about many things that didn't seem to matter and some that did.

Sakura had scrutinized him the entire time. He's older. So is she. They've both changed, but - they're still team mates. She still knows him, and he still knows her. He was still Sasuke, occasionally sarcastic, quick and sharp, and - different. She'd asked him about his travels and where he'd been. He'd told her about the world, about starving children, about the tallest building ever built and how he'd climbed to the top of it, about festivals he'd seen. His journeys were a mixture of joy and sadness. She told him about how all their friends were getting married, and about the hospital, and about how Kakashi kept a stash of his dirty novels in his desk, and how last week Naruto had slurped his ramen so fast it had gone up his nose. Sasuke had laughed: "The more things change, the more they stay the same."

And then they were in her apartment. The hours had passed. They had talked more, and she had made tea this time for both of them, and whenever she turned around and saw Sasuke sitting at her plain kitchen table her heart had filled with something that made it hard to speak. And then once she'd turned back again, and leaned up, on her tip-toes, to reach the mugs - and Sasuke's fingers had closed over hers, and she knew that he was standing behind her.

"Sasuke," she said, and the tips of her ears turned red at how high-pitched her voice was. She shuffled around. They eye she could see was very, very dark, so dark it was almost blue, and he looked so, so serious. His other hand came up and brushed her cheek. She realized that she was trembling.

He didn't say anything, but the hand on her face unfurled to cup her chin, and they closed their eyes.

The kiss was gentle. Tender. The emotion that had filled her heart welled up through all of her, and her arms locked around his neck. They didn't separate when their lips did, but they stood there, holding one another.

Then it had been over. Well, in a way. She'd ordered dinner and rented a movie, a comedy, and they'd sat next to each other on the couch. Their hands had touched first, and then their thighs. Sakura's skin had been buzzing so hard she hadn't been able to pay attention to the screen. Then she'd laid her head on his shoulder, and eventually she'd found herself in his arms, her heart thumping wildly.

"I've always loved your hair," he says, now, voice grizzly with sleep. He plays with the strands. Sakura squirms and laughs as his fingers graze the top of her spine, one of the places she's ticklish, and she could almost swear she feels him smile. "It's the exact color of a cherry blossom."

"It would have been ironic if I'd come out with purple hair, or green," and he makes a _hn _noise that could be a laugh.

"They must have known." He's a little awkward with this, with romance, almost unsure of himself. It's okay. She went on a few dates, but it never went beyond awkward, short kisses. She's not confident with this either, but she's always been brave.

After a pause, he says, "I went to a monastery once. There was an orchard of cherry trees. And graves. They buried the monks, there, and planted a new tree for everyone that died. They said they lived on the way."

He's silent, after all. Sakura whispers, "That's beautiful."

It is. She lays awake and thinks about it, and thinks about them, and the future and the past. He falls asleep. She stands and fetches him a blanket (her favorite) and tucks it around him, trying not to wake him. He doesn't stir. It aches that he trusts her this much.

It wasn't all right yet. The pain of their youth would always be there, the betrayal, the anger, the war. Their scars would never go away. She would never forget the night he left, or when he tried to kill her - but she wouldn't forget that he'd apologized, either, or that he'd come back, and now he was here. And she could forgive the rest. And, together, they could rebuild.


End file.
